Sam stared out the passenger seat window of the Impala. His was brow furrowed and there was a continual and nagging sense of dread in his chest. The voice in his head was driving him crazy, narrating every little thing he did, telling him what do you. He always ignored it. This seemed to upset it, like it was reading from a script and Sam wasn't sticking to it. Strangely enough, having some English prick dictating every little thing he did was more irritating than Lucifer keeping him awake every night. At least when he had dreamed, Satan had had the common decency to stay out. But this voice was with him every conscious and unconscious second.
Look, I think perhaps we've gotten off on the wrong foot here. I'm not your enemy, really I'm not.
Sam wanted to punch something, the damn thing had been quiet for a while now and he was just starting to think it had gone away. Dean glanced over at him worriedly, he knew something was going on with his brother but with the way he was at the moment, he didn't want to push it.
I realise investing your trust in someone else can be difficult, but the fact is that the story has been about nothing but you all this time!
Sam sat up straight, pressing his thumb against the scar on his hand, and the voice fizzled out like someone suddenly turning off a record player. He sighed in relief and closed his eyes, hoping to get some sleep.
Really!?
He jumped awake, the voice hadn't been gone as he'd thought. "Crap." He muttered, rubbing his forehead.
I was in the middle of something, do you have zero consideration for others? Are you that convinced I want something bad to happen to you?
"Dean, I need to stretch my legs, can you pull over?" He turned to his brother, trying to keep a façade of normality about himself. He failed miserably.
"Sure thing." Dean just nodded, he'd ask him what was going on when Sam looked less like the walking dead and more like himself. He pulled over into a lay by with a small patch of grass and a single tree with a bench under it. It was dark and Sam sat on the bench, looking up at the stars. He would do it. He would acknowledge the voice, he had to.
"What do you want?"
Why, I don't know how to convince you of this but I really do want to help you. To show you something beautiful. Let me I prove it, let me I prove I'm on your side.
"You can start by leaving me the hell alone! I don't want your help, I don't need it. Just go!" He spoke through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice low so Dean wouldn't hear him.
Look, Sammy. I rather think I'm the better option here. I mean, which would you really prefer? A little life counselling or the devil making you think you're on fire?
Sam rubbed his forehead again, harder, as if he thought he could rub away the madness that had become his life. "Neither would be great, but right now I'd take Lucifer."
Go ahead, Sammy. You want to know so badly what lies at the end of this road you've chosen, well don't let me stop you.
Sam waited. Then he waited a little longer. After a good few minutes, there was not a peep out of the voice and no sign of alpha and omega. He smiled, leaning back and letting himself relax. Maybe it was all over. He stood up and went back to the car, Dean was lying across the leather seats, flicking idly through a magazine. Sam smirked.
"I wasn't gone that long was I?"
"About half an hour. I thought maybe a monster got you." He responded nonchalantly.
"So you figured the best course of action for that was to read," he paused to look at the title. "Closer?"
He looked at him very seriously. "The voices told me to."
Sam swallowed, panic rising. "What?"
Dean laughed slightly, "Lighten up, dude." he sat up and threw the glossy book over his shoulder onto the back seat. "Now, you want to tell me what's been going on, or shall we carry on pretending you're fine?"
"I am fine." Sam lied again.
"C'mon, Sammy! You were in the pit with two pissed angels. I know Cas really messed you up when he knocked down Death's wall and I just want to make sure you're handling it okay." He gave him a weathered but genuinely concerned look.
He thought for a moment, but knew he couldn't throw another thing in Dean's lap. He'd got enough crap already. "I'm doing okay."
"Not seeing anything?"
"Nope." This was the truth. He wasn't seeing anything.
"Good. I say we go get some burgers, then find a place to crash."
It had been a full day, and Sam was feeling a lot better. He'd got some sleep and there was no sign of any crazy stuff. Dean was beginning to relax as well, seeing his brother start to get some colour back into his face and in appetite returning. Things were looking up.
The Winchesters were investigating a supposed haunting in a block of flats late one night. Dean led the way, gun in one hand and flash light in the other. Sam followed, keeping an eye on the space behind them. They opened a door and before them were two other doors. Dean paused.
"Which way?"
When Sammy came to a set of two doors, he took the door to his left.
Sam froze, an icy feeling creeping up his back. But it had gone! Why was it back? He gritted his teeth. "This way." He led them through the door on his right. The voice just sighed.
Sammy thought he was being clever by ignoring me. Well done, Sammy. We all think you are very powerful.
The voice's tone was dripping with sarcasm, but Sam rolled his eyes and continued.
Although this passage way felt like an escape, the truth was, at the end of this hall, Sammy would meet his violent end.
Sam suddenly stopped. He did it so abruptly that Dean walked straight into the back of him.
"Jesus, Sam!" He hissed at him. "What is it?"
"I was just thinking… maybe you should look at what's behind that other door."
"You want to split up?" Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, it might save time." He didn't look at him, he kept his eyes on the other end of the passage.
That irksome feeling of unease came into Dean's mind again from his brother's tone. He knew he still wasn't quite right. "You sure?"
"I got this, Dean." He started walking again.
Dean watched him for a while, then sighed and went back the way he came.
Sam continued forwards, his eyes skittering in all directions, ready for anything.
The door behind him was not shut. Sammy still had every opportunity to turn around and get back on track.
Sam kept going, his heart was thudding in his chest and cold fear ran up and down his spine.
At this point, Sammy was making a conscious and concerted effort to walk forward and willingly confront his death.
A door came into view at the end of the narrow hallway. Sam halted before it, looking at the dark wood for any clues of what lay beyond it. When it gave none he held his breath, took the handle, and opened the door.
